Shiver of Fear (17 page)

“We’ve been to the three Pug name families,” Devyn said, shaking her head at the phone book like it was a lost cause. “And
the breeders. What are you looking for?”

“Boxing.”

She lowered her sandwich to her plate, frowning. “Boxing as in…” She made a fist and punched the air.

“Yep. We’re thinking ‘pug’ not ‘puge.’ ” He pronounced it with a long vowel and soft g. “Like pugilist.”

“A boxer,” she said, her eyes bright. “See what you can find.”

He did, skimming through the business section looking for anything related to boxing. “Here’s a trainer, Padraig Fallon. Not
too far from here, on the outskirts of Bangor. Other than that, there are some boxing rings in gyms but nothing specific.”

“We can try,” she agreed. “Nothing to lose.”

“Look.” Marc turned the book and pointed to the address. “He’s in building number seventeen.”

“And the e-mail address was puggaree17.” She lifted her mug in a mock toast. “Well done, Sherlock.”

When they each sipped, he held her gaze, something tightening in his gut. Lower.

Of course lower. Devyn Sterling was a gorgeous woman, as perfect as he liked his women to be, but perfection usually went
hand in hand with misery and heartache, and he’d had enough of that in this lifetime.

He looked away, paid the bill, and hustled her out, ignoring the little flash of disappointment in her eyes.

A few minutes later, they met Padraig Fallon, a fireplug of an Irishman with clear eyes and spare words. Marc pretended to
be an amateur boxer on holiday, looking for a possible place to work out, and while he talked to Padraig and tried to understand
an incomprehensibly thick brogue, Devyn looked at his trophies and pictures, then spent a few minutes in the back office talking
to Mrs. Fallon.

When she came out, she gave Marc a little head shake, a silent “nothing here.”

He was already feeling the same way after a conversation with the former professional boxer, and the frustration at the futile
investigation of the day made him skip further questions. Instead he joined Devyn as she studied some yellowed photographs
of a much younger Padraig in shorts and boxing gloves.

“I think we’re wasting our time here,” she said. “We should get back to the Europa to see if Sharon’s checked in. Maybe she
came back a day early.” But he could tell from her voice that she doubted it as much as he did.

“Don’t be frustrated. This has been a purposely low-key search. If she doesn’t show up, we can come back and start asking
more specific questions.”

They left and headed back to the car, taking a different
route through the more residential area, turning a corner, and smelling curry. This street held all businesses, doors open
to retailers selling glittery jewelry, brass art, and porcelain pieces with a heavy Indian influence.

The strings of a sitar and bells played from speakers placed over the door of one storefront, and at another, a woman in full
Indian garb set small tables for lunch, smiling up at them as they passed.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated. “Maybe another lead from Chessie,” he said, taking it out and trying to decipher the caller
ID in the sunshine.

“Who is it?”

“Not sure. Hello?” They slowed down in front of an empty table at a café.

“Mr. Rossi? Thomas from the Europa here.” The concierge who’d let him check out the bags.

He gave Devyn’s arm a squeeze and nodded. Maybe Sharon
had
come back a day earlier. They needed something to break in their favor. “What’ve you got?”

“The bags you had under watch? They’re gone.”

“Really.” Marc held up a finger to her and stepped away, not wanting to relay anything to Devyn until he had the full story,
but she was already drawn to a rack of colorful scarves at a shop door.

When he was out of her hearing range, he asked, “Did Dr. Greenberg check in, then?”

“On the contrary. We had a bit of a fluffle here trying to figure out what to do with the note.”

“The note?”

“The doctor left a note for a guest, but there is no guest by that name.”

“What’s the name?”

“Devyn Sterling. The front desk brought it to me, or I suspect it would’ve just been tossed as so much rubbish. Since you’d
asked about Dr. Greenberg, I kept the note for you, figuring you could tell the doctor that the note wasn’t delivered.”

Marc was quiet for a second, processing this.

“You are interested, aren’t you? ’Cause it might get
lost
.”

Extortionist. “I’m very interested,” Marc assured him. “Please don’t let it get lost.”

“Will do, sir.”

“As far as Dr. Greenberg, you’re absolutely sure she hasn’t checked in?”

“She?” The concierge gave a dry laugh. “Dr. Greenberg was as much a man as you and me.”

A man? “Did you see his ID? You’re certain it was the right person you gave the bags to?”

“He had the ticket—I had to give him the bags.”

He glanced over at Devyn, who was already in a conversation with the shop owner, animatedly discussing a long piece of black
and yellow material. “Okay, thank you, Thomas.”

“Cheers.”

He signed off and turned to Devyn. The shopkeeper stepped inside, so he came up behind her, possessive hands on her waist,
but before he could tell her his news, she held a small sign up to his face.

“I found another needle.”

Puggaree—any color—£5.

He held on to his bad news while they chatted with the shop owner, and all they came away with was a pretty black and gold
silk scarf that Marc bought for Devyn after
the owner informed her it was a classic Indian design symbolic of good fortune.

Well, they’d need a little of that.

Devyn fingered the creamy silk around her neck and shoulders as they left, her shoulders slumping as though weighed down by
defeat.

“At least tomorrow’s Thursday,” she said as they walked to the car. “And I know she’s coming back to the hotel.”

“Maybe not.” He hated to break this news, even more when she looked up with concern in her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“The call I got before you started sleuthing around the shop? It was from the concierge.” As he told her what he’d learned,
the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Devyn’s eyes grew as gray as the sky.

“A man took her bags and left a note for me?”

He nodded. “It could be a trap just to get you again.”

But she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes searching his face, her expression stricken. “What if both my biological parents
are criminals?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Isn’t that what you’re so determined to find out?”

“What does that make me?”

“Come on,” he said, attempting to guide her across the street to the lot where he’d parked, a strong arm over her shoulders,
but her legs moved like they were leaden.

“They’re my biological parents,” she said. “They
are
who I am. They have
everything
to do with me.”

“It’s just genes and DNA, not your character, not your soul,” he told her, the words sounding hollow as he said them.

Family is who you are; he knew it, and she did, too.

He unlocked her door, his gaze hard on her as she folded into the passenger seat. He jogged around to the right side, opened
the door and slid in, key poised to start the ignition.

“Really, Dev—”

“Neither one of you should move.”

Devyn let out a shriek at the man’s voice, while the only muscles Marc moved were his eyes as he gazed into the rearview mirror.

The boxer had followed them here.

“Hello, Padraig,” he said calmly, lifting both hands to show he wasn’t armed.

The older man didn’t have a weapon, at least not aimed at them, but his hands were deadly enough, and they rested like huge
slabs on the backs of their seats, ready to attack.

“I have information you want.”

Marc stole a glance at Devyn, who sat stone still, eyes wide.

“No need to break into a car to give it to us,” Marc said.

“I didn’t want to be seen talking to you,” he said, his words running together like brisk Irish breezes.

“Why not?” Marc asked.

“Because it would be very dangerous for… someone,” he said, drawing out the word “dangerous” with a guttural inflection.

“Who?” Marc inched around, burning the man with a look.

But Padraig’s attention was on Devyn. “She wants your phone number.”

Devyn visibly paled but didn’t respond.

“Dr. Greenberg,” he said in response to a question she didn’t have to ask. “She wants to get in touch with you.”

“Okay,” Devyn said quietly, reaching for her bag. “I’ll write it—”

“No, just tell me. I’ll remember.”

Devyn glanced at Marc, uncertainty in her eyes. He gave a nod, sensing she needed a little coaxing.

She said the phone number once, slowly, and Padraig nodded. “Now I have a message for you from her,” he said.

Devyn leaned forward. “You do?”

Marc put his hand on the seat, looking hard at Padraig. “It better be an explanation about where she is and what she’s doing,
and why someone attacked Devyn in an alley last night and mentioned her name.”

“I can tell you where she is,” the man replied. “Finding out the rest will require you to go there.”

Marc blew out a breath, but Devyn quieted him with a wave. “Please tell us.”

“Enniskillen,” he said.

“Who are you?” Marc demanded. “How do you know her?”

“Where is Enniskillen?” Devyn asked, as though Marc hadn’t spoken.

“Devyn, we’re not going anywhere until we find out who sent us and why.”

Padraig lifted a shoulder as if he expected this, then reached into his pocket. Marc braced to get his own gun. But all Padraig
pulled out was a photograph, an older picture, taken before color printers and digital cameras.

Devyn turned and took the picture, the little bit of color left in her cheeks draining away. “Oh, God.”

“Your graduation day?” Padraig asked.

She nodded.

“I guess she was there, then.”

Devyn brought a shaky hand to her mouth, looking at him, her eyes filling. “How did you get this?”

“She gave it to me as a way to convince you to go.”

Devyn studied the picture, then the man who’d given it to her. “What is this all about? Marc’s right—we need to know something
before we go.”

The collar of a beat-up peacoat brushed against the few hairs he had left as he leaned forward, the thick fingers tightening
on the seat. “You’ll find your mother in Enniskillen,” he repeated. “I’ve a sense she’d like to meet you before she dies.”

Devyn responded with a gasp.

There was no way he’d convince her to ignore this lead, that much Marc knew. “Where do we go when we get there?”

“Someone will meet you when you find the notes.”

Jesus, this was getting ridiculous. “What notes?” Marc demanded, leaning forward and itching to get his weapon. “Just spell
it out and quit the cloak-and-dagger business. Devyn’s traveled across the ocean to find Dr. Greenberg, so just tell us where,
when, and why.”

Padraig ignored the order. “Just go there. It’ll be clear to ya.” He inched to the side door and started to climb out. Halfway,
he paused, dipped his head back down, and stared at Devyn.

“You know, miss, you favor your mother much more’n your dad. At least, on the outside.”

That was it, Marc knew. She’d go anywhere he said now, no questions asked. And Padraig Fallon was gone before Marc could ask
anything at all.

D
evyn damn near vibrated all the way back to Belfast. Padraig’s parting shot had hit her hard, and it took all of Marc’s willpower
not to pull over and take her in his arms until she did what he suspected she wanted to do—sob. To her credit, she didn’t
cry.

She didn’t talk, either. Or look at him. What she did was stare at that picture and occasionally give in to a shiver despite
the fact that the windows were closed and no air-conditioning chilled the car.

Near the hotel, she finally took a deep breath and looked at him. “I’m going. You know that, don’t you?”

“I figured that.”

“She…” Her fingers grazed the picture of a teenage girl in full high school graduation garb crossing a stage to receive a
diploma. It had been taken from quite a distance. “I have to go and find her.”

And he had to be very careful with how he proceeded. She was emotionally raw, obviously clinging to a hope
she’d tried to talk herself out of, and they had nothing but questions.

“Before we—you—make any decisions, we should think this through. We don’t know who Fallon is, what his agenda is.”

“She’s in trouble.”

“Possibly. Or it could be a trap to get you where they want you.”

She closed her eyes, not about to be talked out of a decision she’d already made. “She’s… followed me. She knows me. She wanted
my phone number.”

“And she appears to have been at your high school graduation.” He waited a beat. “The operative word being
appears
.”

When she didn’t reply, he reached over to her and said, “You know we can figure this out.”

She turned, blinking as though trying to bring herself back to the moment, then nodded. “I’m going to Enniskillen.”

Not until they had more information, she wasn’t. “Devyn, listen to me. Several unsavory characters have suggested you leave,
to no avail. Now this guy produces a picture that, frankly, anyone could have taken—”

“This is me, Marc.” She waved the picture.

“Anyone could have taken
of you
,” he finished.

“But anyone didn’t. Sharon Greenberg did. On the back, in handwriting, it says ‘Rose on her Grad Day.’ ”

He frowned. “Rose?”

“On my birth records, it says Rose Devyn. She named me before giving me up. My parents have never called me anything but Devyn.
No one has. No one… until now.”

“Still—”

“It isn’t the first picture,” she said, cutting him off. “I think”—her voice finally cracked—“she needs me.”

“Or someone does. And they know just how to get you.”